OH! canst thou remember

The hour we met,

When pleasure seemed rising,

Again ne'er to set?

When the world opened on us

A view of its bliss,

Which induced us to ask,

'Can Heaven beat this?'

When home from your exile,

You seized up in joy,

And strained to your bosom,

Wild beating, your boy. 

But, alas! it has changed,

We are now parted,

And I am left here

Lone, broken-hearted;

Tossed by the tempest-wave

Of fortune thus dark,

I ride o'er its billows

A lonely, lost bark,

With one, only one star,

Which aids me to steer,

And shines o'er the waters

Far distant, yet clear. 

Ah! why need I tell thee

That Hope is the star

Which beckons me onward,

And shines thus afar;

A hope that some sun yet

Will rise on the day,

And disperse the dark cloud

Of fortune away;

The day which shall give me

From off the dark main,

To clasp to my bosom,

My Mother again! 

[from �The Watery Grave and other Poems�, by Reginald Orton, MRCS] 

Reginald Orton, b 1810 Surat, Bombay;

                           d 1862 Ford North Farm, Bishopwearmouth, Co. Durham.